


Bedsharing Blues

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Declarations Of Love, Episode: s11e10 The Devil in the Details, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, One Capybara, Pining, Roses, Slow Burn, So Sugary It Will Rot Your Teeth, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, Waffles, Which Means Some Angst And Mentions of Impending Doom, destielminibang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dean shares a bed with someone. A story of friendship and sadness and hatred and deep, undying love. Happy Valentine, everyone!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after _The Devil in the Details_ , which means Cas has just said yes to Lucifer and everyone is a bit blue and weirded out. Expect some angst in the first chapters, but I promise you some _very_ fluffy fluff for the ending. Also probably the sappiest love declaration ever. And bunnies. You have been warned.
> 
> Many thanks to _sternchencas_ for the lovely banner and to the guys over at _destielvalentineminibang_ for inspiring me to write this. :)

# 

For the first ten miles or so, Dean can almost convince himself that his brother is fine. Or, well, as fine as any of them are going to get, at any rate. And then - then Taylor Swift comes on the radio, and Sam doesn’t say anything when Dean doesn’t change the station. He just stares right ahead, the cuts and bruises on his face looking even worse now his skin’s a bit cleaner.

(That, of course, should have tipped Dean off: Sam had insisted they stop in the first gas station they’d seen, a run-down, depressing thing, had disappeared inside the bathroom for twenty-five minutes. When Dean had finally gone to get him, he’d found Sam standing bare-chested in front of the mirror, furiously scrubbing his skin clean with his wet shirt. There had been a time when Sam would have loved to talk about something like this - that’s _all_ he used to live for - when Dean had gotten out of Hell (well: when _Cas_ had pulled him out of Hell) and had started to sleep completely dressed, jacket and shirt and jeans and shoes, Sam had followed him around like a puppy, begging him to ‘talk about it’. Now, though, this is what he is. Someone who can’t wait two hours for a hot shower and strips down in a dirty, disgusting bathroom instead because the alternative is plain unbearable. So Dean hadn’t said anything. He’d just kept the door open, silently inviting Sam to get the fuck out of there, and then he’d fetched Sam a clean shirt from his own bag.)

So when Dean gets Crowley’s text ( _Run_ ) the thought of sharing it with his brother doesn’t even cross his mind. Whatever Crowley wants now (and what happened to all that ‘team-up over’ garbage, then?), Dean will deal with it on his own.

 _Cas not Cas_ , Crowley texts next, and what the hell is he, drunk? Dean ignores the lurch of worry deep in his stomach and drives on.

“Wanna stop for dinner?” he asks Sam, when they’re about forty miles from the Bunker, and Sam is almost startled by his voice.

“ _Jesus_ , Dean,” he says, as though Dean has done something wrong; and then he shakes his head. “Let’s just - pick something up, okay?”

Dean glances sideways at him. This is his fault, he thinks. If they hadn’t split up - if Sam hadn’t been alone - if -

“Yeah, okay,” he says, forcing his eyes on the road again. 

When they arrive at the Bunker, there are two large pizzas in the back seat. Sam, however, leaves the car without even glancing at them and disappears inside; and when Dean gets to the kitchen, he finds two bottles of vodka are missing (the very cheap kind; something Dean keeps around because he still can’t believe they have an actual, well-stocked infirmary now - a walk-in closet full of stuff they have access to, just like that). Which is not good, but, well. Being drunk never killed anyone. Probably. 

Hell, he should know.

Setting the pizzas down on the counter, he takes his phone out and tries to call Crowley.

Who doesn’t answer.

And now Dean is seriously pissed (worried). He tries to call Cas instead, and it goes to voicemail. Dean doesn’t know what to say -

 _Hey man, where are you_ and _We made it back okay, but Sam is acting weird_ and _I miss you_ and _Why didn’t you come back with me_ and _Where are you_ and _What are you doing_ and _I need you here because I can’t do this on my own_ and _Please come back to me_ and _Cas_ -

\- so he hangs up.

When the bell rings, about two hours after that, it sounds way too loud and a bit mournful. Cas never uses the bell - he has a key - and Dean has a feeling he knows _exactly_ who this is, anyway.

Walking slowly, his mind in a sort of _Why is this my life_ place, he drags himself upstairs, opens the front door.

Crowley is standing there, his face a palette of black and blue and red.

“May I come in?” he says, a bit impatiently, after he realizes all Dean can do is stare at his injuries. “I believe we have something to discuss.”

And so they talk - rather, Crowley explains and sneers and acts superior and turns his nose up at the cold pizza (but seems to know, and how the hell, that Sam is hiding some kind of fancy olives in the back of a kitchen cabinet, so he fetches those instead); and Dean, well. As soon as he hears what Crowley has to say, all Dean can do is drink. Because there is a lot going on, but Dean mostly hears the words _Castiel_ and _Lucifer_ and _possession_ and _dead_ and _threat_ and _danger_ and _Castiel_. He’s not sure how to piece them together, and the more he drinks, the less he feels like he has to, right now.

Which is nice and sensible, because, what the fuck? What can he even do?

(When will this ever end?)

And Sam doesn’t come out of his room. Despite his humungous size, he’s never been good with strong spirits - Dean knows he meant to knock himself out, and has no doubt that goal has been met. Dedication and hard work: that’s his brother, through and through. 

(And he also knows Sam won’t talk about it tomorrow, because what good would that do?)

So he stays there and he listens to Crowley and he tries not to watch Crowley’s face, because the bruises and the cuts are healing already, a slow, sickening process which does funny things to his stomach, now heavy with dread and cheese and booze.

And when it all gets too much, Dean scowls and stands up.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, and Crowley looks almost hurt.

“Have you heard _one_ word I said?” he asks, sounding like all the teachers Dean ever had.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it right now. And whatever the fuck you are,” Dean replies, gesturing vaguely at the bruises slowly disappearing from Crowley’s skin, “I’m human. I need to sleep.”

“Okay. Be like that. Don’t mind me. Don’t mind the end of the world,” Crowley says, all huffy, so Dean doesn’t.

He walks away instead; walks back to his room, every step beating a resounding blow on the inside of his skull ( _Cas - Cas - Cas_ ). He knows he’ll get angry in the morning, knows how this works, but for now he’s just in shock. And terrified.

What if Lucifer -

No. He couldn’t. He can’t. _Can_ he?

And why does Cas _do_ these things? Why doesn’t Cas _realize_ that Dean - that -

But, then again, Dean never told him, now, did he?

(Not clearly. Not when he isn’t delirious with panic and blood loss. And never the whole truth of it.)

 _This is not on me_ , Dean thinks, pushing his bedroom door open; but it’s way too early for rage, and, yes this _is_ on him. Like everything bloody else. 

The careful, diffident knock comes way too late for it to be polite, but Dean is still awake (of fucking course he fucking is, and what else is new) and curses to himself. Even though it’s ass o’clock in the morning and the room is almost completely dark, he can practically _see_ Crowley on the other side of his door, all black clothes turned even darker by the bluish light in the corridor; and he’s not happy about it, not one bit.

“What?” he almost shouts.

“May I come in?” asks Crowley politely, as if this is some kind of Princeton social function; as if they’re not in the shitstorm they’re actually in - as if Dean hadn’t been trained to hunt demons his whole life and now -

(As if Dean had any chance, or even the will, to stop Crowley from doing whatever the hell he pleases.)

“For fuck’s sake,” says Dean, sinking back into his pillow, and Crowley comes in.

Dean hears him hesitate - he’s not bothered by the darkness, Dean knows as much (not that he’s ever asked, but everything Crowley is just screams _I can totally see in the dark_ ) - and look around. Not that there’s anything in this room that would surprise him. Two framed pictures of friends and family (nearly all of them now dead); a selection of weapons hung on the wall. A few DVDs, mostly Clint Eastwood things he picked up in gas stations.

“Charming,” Crowley says. “You really have an eye for home decoration.”

And then, before Dean can decide if he wants to answer that, the demon walks right to Dean’s bed and fucking sits down.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean asks, sitting up so fast he almost dislocates his whole spine.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were drunk enough to be okay with this.”

“ _This_ being what, exactly?” 

Dean can barely make out Crowley’s shape. When Crowley turns to look at him, he can suddenly see, for a mere second, his eyes flashing - flashing _red_ \- and the sight is not comforting at all.

“A sleepover?” Crowley suggests, the innocent word turning into pure filth inside his mouth; and is that a demonic ability, or just a by-product of his British accent? Dean has never been sure, and has never been less keen to find out.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

Crowley sighs.

“I want to stay in here tonight,” he says, slowly, enunciating the words very, very clearly. “Are you drunk enough to allow me to do so, or shall I fetch you the rest of that bottle?”

“There’s a third option there,” Dean says, his voice now dripping acid, “that you turn tail and you fucking sleep on the couch. Or, you know, in a hole in the ground. A coffin. A fucking _blender_. Anything.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Go _away_ , Crowley.”

But Crowley doesn’t. He remains exactly where he is, on the very edge of the bed, his head slightly bowed.

“I swear to God,” starts Dean, but finds he doesn’t have the energy to finish that sentence. 

He drops back against the pillow instead, and grits his teeth. The _last_ thing he wants to do - the last thing he fucking _needs_ , or _deserves_ \- is to stay awake the whole night and worry whether Crowley is going to kill him in his sleep; and yet, he _did_ invite Crowley in (in the Bunker; in his bedroom). God, but he’s _such_ a stupid bastard.

On the other hand, shouting at Crowley is a good alternative to thinking about Cas. Hell, smashing his own head against the wall is starting to look like a good alternative too, because now the anger is trying to set in, and Dean knows it’s unfair, but -

 _Jesus_. 

Dean is so fucking _furious_ \- they had it all under control, they’d figured out a way to push Lucifer back down - and that idiot - that useless, stubborn _fucker_ -

“He killed my mum, you know,” says Crowley, out of the blue, and, mercifully, Dean’s thoughts get derailed.

“You mean he beat us to it. Too bad,” he says, bad-tempered, because, after all, it’s not like Crowley cared, one way or the other; he’d been on the brink of killing his own mother himself several times, had been enthusiastic about it.

But, well, Crowley doesn’t say anything to that. He turns to look at Dean instead, and, again, Dean sees his eyes briefly flashing red, before he turns away again.

“I thought you, of all people, would understand,” he says, quietly, and Dean is just about done.

Because this isn’t _fair_. Because it’s _not_ the same thing, not by a fucking _mile_. So, first off, his own mom was killed by fucking _demons_ ; and she was kind and nice and perfect in every way and Dean can’t - sometimes he wishes he’d never met her at all - that Cas hadn’t brought him back in time, or anything, because it was way easier to go through life with the vague memories he’d had of her before (the smell of her apple pies; her voice; her dirty blond hair trapped in his fat little fist). He hadn’t needed all those other things. They had made his life so much shittier.

(But, yeah, that’s a lie. Shocker.)

And Rowena - Rowena was a calculating bitch. A cold, callous thing who’d abandoned her own son, and then tried to kill him (tried to kill them all) for good measure.

And Crowley has no _right_ -

But Dean, unlike Sam, remembers that _other_ Crowley. He can only just see him, through the glittering smoke that are his memories of his own demon days, but the thing is not forgotten (will never be forgotten; not the blood, and not the rest of it). Crowley is the guy who’d taught him to breathe again; to function without a beating heart, and to bear the sound of other people’s (of living people’s) beating hearts when Dean had found himself going hungry and rabid at the soft, ever-present dripping of it. He’d been the guy who’d never wanted to rule Hell in the first place (to be a demon, even). He’d enjoyed fussball and strong beers too bitter even for Dean’s new taste. He’d picked Dean off the floor when Dean had been too drunk to walk. He’d been his wingman, his partner, his friend. Dean thinks he remembers, very vaguely, Crowley look at him across a pool table; Crowley say, with a wide smile, ‘This is the happiest I’ve ever been’.

And this is why Dean sighs theatrically and then rolls to the other side of the bed (the cold side of the bed, Jesus), dragging all the pillows with him.

“You do _not_ tell Sam,” he says, warningly, and next, Crowley is lying down on top of the sheets, still fully clothed, as if he’s forgotten how to pretend to be people.

“So, how do we feel about it?” Dean adds, when a full minute has passed and nothing has happened.

Crowley is so still it’s unnerving.

“I thought I’d be happy,” he says, slowly. “After all, I’d made my peace with it a long time ago. I was an orphan before I could even walk.”

“But?”

“It’s the _what if_ which trips you,” Crowley admits. “If my mother had been - different, braver - if she hadn’t given up on me -”

“You’d have died of smallpox or some shit when you were seven,” says Dean, because he has a long history of saying the wrong thing and right now, yeah, he really can’t be bothered.

“She said love makes you weaker,” Crowley adds, disregarding Dean’s blunt statement. “What do you think?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“This is the kind of thing you should ask Sam about,” he replies. “He’s the smart one.”

“Right,” says Crowley. “Good to see your lack of self-esteem doesn’t get in the way of comforting an old friend over his mother’s death.”

“You’re not an old friend.”

“Well, I’m lying in your bed - by your side,” Crowley points out, reasonably, and now Dean wants to kill him. “If I’m not a friend, then what am I?”

 _Right_.

“This was a mistake.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

“Shut up. It was. I don’t even know why I let you in in the first place.”

Crowley takes a breath, and when he speaks again, there is a touch of his old malice in his mellow voice.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_. Would you rather be alone? I know you don’t _do_ alone, Dean. And who else is actually here for you, then? Your brother?”

“Crowley, I swear to _God_ -”

“Please. I could smell that cheap alcohol he drowned himself in from the top of the stairs. Or are we missing Cas, is that it?”

And now Dean is sitting up and turning around and readying himself for a full-scale brawl, and it doesn’t even matter if he can’t ever hope to win, because this fucker is not about to - to -

“How are things between you both, Squirrel? Made any progress? I remember you whining about -”

The first blow catches Crowley right on the nose, and Dean hears the satisfying noise of broken cartilage first, and then Crowley’s soft, annoyed curse. He reaches out, grabs Crowley’s expensive shirt as reality shifts around him - everything becomes a bit slower and a bit clearer, as it always happens when he fights, and there is also a kind of noise in his brain - rage and also a savage joy he knows he’ll be ashamed of in the morning (he always is).

But then -

“Again,” Crowley says, and he isn’t fighting back in any way; he isn’t even touching Dean, and Dean can’t - 

His fist stops in mid-air.

“What?”

Because Dean is not sober enough to actually have planned anything, but he’d expected _some_ resistance. He’d expected Crowley to pin him against a wall and beat the shit out of him (had sort of relished the whole concept, because he can’t deal with it right now - with any of it - and he’s promised Cas he won’t drink enough to pass out, not anymore, and this is the other option - something which had seemed perfectly sensible until Crowley had thrown it back in his face).

“Hit me,” says Crowley, his polished vowels a bit dented by the blood in his nose. “What are you, deaf?”

Dean lets him go, drags himself back to his side of the bed. His right hand moves towards the blade under the mattress, then stills.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” he asks, his heart beating way too fast, and now he feels sober again - more sober, actually, than he’s been in years - and he’s not sure he’s even talking about Crowley anymore.

Because he can suddenly see it, all of it - not only how pathetic they both are (a failed demon; a failed man), but everything else. He’s got two lifetimes under his belt, and nothing to show for it. His father is dead (gave his life for Dean’s), and Bobby is dead, and every friend he ever had is dead. His brother has collapsed into an ethylic coma and is now probably snoring softly in a room much like Dean’s - a bare, undecorated place with one wall full of weapons and a box of old toys and faded photographs at the very end of a drawer, because this is all Dean has managed to give him. And Cas -

God, Dean can’t even _think_ about it, because this is the funny thing about psychopaths pretending to be idealists - Lucifer did it all, allegedly, for the glory of free will and independent thought, but as soon as someone disagrees with him, well, there it goes, free will can go fuck itself and thank you very much - and Cas - _Jesus_ \- whenever Dean thinks about Cas and Lucifer, it’s never about that little cemetery, no, all he sees is Cas as he’d been in that future which is now a memory. A badly-shaven, sarcastic man (not that Cas could ever be human, not completely, because even back in Chitaqua Dean had almost _smelled_ it on him - this beauty and light and a heart so pure and constant it could never, _ever_ belong to a human) who’d smiled and winked at him and then ran into a trap, straight towards his own death, because Dean had told him to.

And now Dean is breathing a bit too fast, and his fingers have twisted in the sheets so strongly it hurts, and he still doesn’t know how to let go.

And Crowley.

Dean looks down at this man - this thing (this almost friend) - in his bed, then away again.

 _There, but for the Grace of God, go I_ , says a voice inside his brain, and he sort of shudders, because it must be almost morning now, and the room is way too cold.

“Jesus,” he says, and Crowley sighs.

“You’re officially useless, you know.”

“Yeah,” says Dean.

It’s not like it’s news, or anything.

They remain where they are - Dean sitting with his head back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling and wishing he could see the stars beyond it, and Crowley five inches from him, his arms now crossed behind his head, his eyes closed - until the silence stretches into something almost comfortable. 

“I am sorry about the angel,” says Crowley, in the end, his voice back to normal. “But, well. He learned how to think for himself by watching you. What did you expect?” 

“Yeah, that’s not helpful,” says Dean, and he wonders at it - because the anger is definitely gone, and even the pain is some kind of undefined ache for now - there is something stronger underneath it, keeping it at bay; a kind of undying, fiery warmth.

Because Cas is strong. Cas will make it out. It doesn’t even _matter_ why Cas did what he did, and if he was right in doing it. Cas will _always_ find his way back to Dean, whatever the cost.

“You know you’re an idiot, right?”

“Yeah, still not helpful.”

But, well, there’s no point in pretending this isn’t real. Because Dean knows Crowley cares about him, in some weird, twisted way (if he has to be honest with himself, he’s known for a long time, and, yeah), and now he’s here, and Dean knows him well enough to see the guy is scared and broken and in need of some kind of help.

A demon who hates Hell. A hunter who’s friends with monsters. A bad joke is what they are, both of them. 

If Dad knew, he would have a fit.

Then again, who cares?

“I don’t remember ever sharing a bed with anyone,” Crowley says, out of the blue, after they’ve been silent for so long Dean can almost kid himself he’ll fall asleep any minute now, even if he’s still sitting up and he’s now so cold he doesn’t want to move, much less sleep.

“Dear God,” he replies, passing his hands over his face, then dragging the blanket over his legs, “is this your line? Are you about to get weird?”

“You know, this is normally the moment I’d say, _Do you want me to?_ , but tonight I really can’t be bothered,” says Crowley after a full minute, the words completely emotionless.

“That’s a relief,” Dean mutters, but Crowley just ignores him, talks over him.

“Don’t you realize what Lucifer can _do_?” he asks. “He will _flatten_ us. You. Me. _Everyone_. And at this point, I’m not even sure I care anymore.”

“Of course you do,” says Dean, because this is what you say.

“Well, maybe I don’t.”

That was so childish, Dean has to squash the sudden impulse to kick Crowley in the shin.

“That’s what we do, man. We fight the good fight, and we keep doing it until -”

“Aren’t you tired of your own bullshit?” 

“It’s not -”

“No, I mean it. You _have_ to say this crap to Sam because of all this warm and fuzzy whatever that’s between you two, and God _knows_ you try to keep that angel alive because you know you won’t survive without him -”

“ _Crowley_ -”

“- but you’ve never lied to me, not really. So don’t start now, because I _promise_ you -” 

“I don’t _know_ , okay? Is this what you want me to say?”

The room is so dark, and the demon beside him is so silent - not breathing, not fidgeting, just like Cas - that Dean has the sudden, unsettling feeling he’s talking to himself, even if Crowley’s last sentence is still ringing in his ears.

“And I'm not,” he starts, glancing down at the still shape on his right, and he’s about to add something about Cas, the usual knee-jerk reaction he has around Sam when Sam gets superior and obnoxious and starts hinting at things, but, well, he really can’t. 

So Crowley knows. And Sam, apparently. And, well, every angel he’s ever met. So what?

“I’m human,” he tries again, changing track, “which means, that, I don’t know, there’s something there which won’t let me quit. I really wanted to, back when -”

But there’s a whole list there - Dad dying on him and Sam dying on him and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Charlie and Cas walking into that lake and also the Mark preying on his every thought and turning his brain and heart a bitter, angry red - and what’s the point?

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he says instead. “She was wrong, you know.”

This is all he can say, because saying the actual words out loud - _Love doesn’t make you weak, and you deserved to be loved, anyway_ \- well, that would turn this into a fucking romance novel, and no thank you. 

But Crowley understands. Of course he does. He’s ten times smarter than any of them.

“You should sleep,” it’s all he says, after another moment. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”

 _I’m happy we can be friends_ , is what that means; and also, _I hope Lucifer won’t come here tonight and kill us all_ , because, yeah, their lives are _that_ fucked-up. But, hey, Dean will take it.

“Yeah, do that,” he says; and then he slides down so he can be a proper human and lay his head on a goddamn pillow and pulls the sheet and blanket right up to the tip of his nose. 

This is a bit more comfortable; he’s a little warmer now, and yeah, he could actually sleep.


	2. Sam

Dean hates sharing a bed with Sam, because Sam smells.

Well: that’s unfair. It’s not like Sam is the Sewer Boy, or anything like that. And Sam doesn’t go out of his way to fart or belch, the way he did when they were kids and they would play-fight and the second Dean had Sam pinned down Sam would reach up and lick his neck, or something, until Dean was grossed out enough to let go.

No. Not at all.

It’s just the normal hunter smell, isn’t it? The same smell that clings to Dean’s clothes and never lets go, no matter how many times Dean washes them (how many times he throws them out, buys new ones in the exact same shades of blue and red).

Blood. Goo. Gunpowder. That cheap detergent perfume. That generic aftershave brand. More blood. More goo. More gunpowder.

Dean is used to smelling those things on himself, but he hates smelling them on Sam. Because Sam was never supposed to - well. Not his brother.

( _Where is Dad?_ Sammy would ask, back when Dean wasn’t allowed to tell him and would just say, _He’s working_ ; and next, they would play a game - Dean would distract Sam, keep him busy while he heated up some kind of crap on some kind of stove - because Sam would say, _That sucks_ , and Dean would say, _Yeah? What do_ you _want to do when you grown up, then?_ and Sam would start counting on his fingers - a vet and an astronaut and a teacher just like Mr Stephens and something to do with dogs, or maybe someone who travels the world and walks on volcanoes and Dean would snort and tell him that, _Yeah, that’s not a real job_ , because he already knew he wanted to kill monsters, just like his Dad, and what was cooler than that?

Or, maybe, well, maybe he could be a professional wrestler. That would be _super_ cool.)

And Dean hasn’t thought about this is a while, because lately they’ve been proper grown-ups about things and here in the Bunker they’ve got separate rooms and Dean can go to sleep on his own in a big bed -

(a bed which is mostly _too_ big) 

\- and pretend like Sam isn’t lying in his identical room down the hall (pretend like Sam is in some fancy house in California instead, a proper thing with a white fence and a stupid dog kennel); and also pretend, sometimes, that Sam is here because Sam likes it here. 

The Bunker may be a sort of home by now, and more than either of them ever had, but Dean couldn’t bear to live here alone. Couldn’t bear to do this job alone.

_You don’t_ do _alone, Dean_ , and what does it say about him that a demon knows him better than he knows himself?

( _Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days_ , he’d said, and he’d known that was a mistake, he’d known all along - Sam had never cared for the life, Sam had never wanted -)

But tonight, well. Tonight things are what they are.

( _Are you sure you’re okay?_ Dean had asked, looking back over his shoulder at Sam as he was fixing dinner; _Dean, I’m_ fine, Sam had said, exasperated, clicking away on his laptop, and the thing - Sam drinking himself to sleep for the last three days - had not been mentioned at all.)

And Dean was never fully asleep, because these days - as soon as he closes his eyes, he can see Amara looking back at him, smiling at him -

( _You and I will be together. We will become one._ )

\- and that makes his skin hot and cold, it makes it difficult to breathe. And when he gives up and turns the light on, he has to think about those other things - about the fact Amara is real, and not something lurking in his nightmares; about Cas stepping into the abyss to try and ward her off; about - about -

So Dean hadn’t been asleep, not really; he’d just been in his room, lights on, the comforting warmth of the laptop on his belly, watching cartoons; trying not to remember how Cas had reacted that first time Dean had introduced him to the joy of Looney Tunes -

( _I understand. The bird represents God. And coyote is man, endlessly chasing the divine, yet never able to catch him. It's - it's hilarious._ )

\- because Cas, of course, is not here. The bastard is _never_ here. Every damn time Dean starts to think there could be something -

( _Do you want me to give you a lift?_ )

\- Cas shuts him down.

( _You two go on ahead._ )

And now it’s very possibly too late.

So when Sam starts screaming, Dean hears it, reacts at once. He dashes out of his room, a blade in his right hand - almost slips in his socked feet as he runs towards Sam’s room, the bluish lights of the corridor making something eerie out of his clumsy shadow self, a disproportioned creature carrying what looks like a hugeass spear - and then he’s barging in Sam’s room, and Sam is -

\- alone. And asleep.

_Son of a bitch_.

He’d _asked_ Sam if he needed his pills, and Sam had said no. Had said this wasn’t like last time; had said he’d be alright. 

(And Dean hadn’t mentioned the empty bottles piling up. Not once.)

And, Sam had managed to say all of the above in that sanctimonious, _I know what’s best for me_ voice Sam had developed aged nine, when he’d first realized Dean was systematically held back in every school they were enrolled in (that every teacher would rave about Sam’s abilities; would suggest additional reading for Dean, would smile in an encouraging way at them all as Dad sighed and checked his watch).

Because Dean had been a figure of myth and awe before that, and, thinking back on it, Sam must have resented it as much as he’d relished it. Nobody wants to be the hero’s sidekick, after all.

So when Sam had discovered Dean _did_ have a weakness, after all - well.

Dean had never minded. Or not much, at any rate. He’d had zero interest in learning about rivers and flags and math calculations written in some sort of Greek. His main focus had always been on other things - 

(making sure Sam was happy and warm and fed)

\- things that could actually keep him _alive_. Improving his aim. Getting out of handcuffs and restraints. Wrestling and hustling and driving. And that one, crucial difference between fighting and smiling - because sometimes what’s coming at you is a man, not a monster, and some fights you must lose. The trick is knowing which ones (the trick is not minding).

So Dean stops on the threshold for a second, lets his ugly-ass machete point down at the floor; and when Sam starts thrashing again, he drops the thing, moves to the bed, hesitates for only a second before climbing in.

It’s a big bed, after all. Sam may be a goddamn giant, but there’s plenty of room.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Sam, and, as he knew would happen, Sam turns around and hugs him hard around the middle.

This is standard Sam behaviour during nightmares. He always becomes grabby and weird, but Dean doesn’t mind it.

“Get him off,” Sam mumbles. “He’s -”

Dean doesn’t know _what_ Lucifer is, exactly. Never knew, because Sam never felt much about sharing, and he’d seemed so miserable the first time around (his stupid hair all floppy, his eyes huge and miserable on a face which was rapidly becoming thinner and paler) that Dean hadn’t even felt like pointing out that when this had happened to Dean, Sam had lost no time to badger him and insist that if he just _talked_ about it -

But there are some things you don’t talk about. And Lucifer is one of them.

Dean knows. Dean _gets_ it. 

And that’s why he relaxes back against the headboard and passes his right arm around Sam’s shoulders and he allows Sam to keep hugging him even if it’s more of a vise of death than a hug, and he’s sure he’ll find bruises on his skin tomorrow - finger-shaped things that could be a memory of good sex on someone else.

(On him? Yeah, right. He’ll have to be grateful it wasn’t someone trying to kill him, instead of his kid brother being afraid of the dark.)

When Sam starts mumbling again, Dean moves his hand, cards his fingers in his brother’s hair instead; pats Sam’s head, over and over, until Sam quiets down and burrows his face against Dean’s side and falls asleep again.

The scary thing is, it’s not awkward.

In fact, it used to be like this between them. Dean remembers it - he remembers it a lot more than Sam does, simply because he’s older. You can’t keep kids at arm’s length, after all. Dean had tried a bit, at first, because babies are weird and smelly and they tend to vomit and poop on you if you let them get too close. But then, well. He remembers this one day - it was hot, so it must have been summer. The first summer, perhaps, after Mom died. Sam could barely walk by then, but he’d somehow crawled up to Dean - they’d been sitting outside in the grass, and Dad was - where _was_ Dad? Dean doesn’t remember. What he _does_ know is that Sam had proceeded to squash the little fort Dean had been trying to build with some sticks he’d found - and then, before Dean could even think about getting angry, Sam had grabbed him around the neck in that messy way kids have - a bit too tight and somewhat uncomfortable, especially on a hot day. But Dean had hugged him back, and he’d realized, in some vague, childish way, that Dad never did that; that no one had hugged him, or even touched him, since the day Mom had gone to Heaven. 

(Not like this. Not one of these hugs that start from your heart, not your arms. Not these hugs where you just want to hold on, because you know you should do more and say more but your love is so deep it won’t be squashed into actions or words; it’s something that only works like this, with my arms around you.) 

After all, they hadn’t gone to school or anything, that first year (Dad had just forgotten). They’d seen no one else - no teachers, no relatives - no women at all. It had been just them and Dad, and Dad -

Sam moves a bit in his sleep. His right arm relaxes a bit around Dean’s hips, and he sighs.

\- Dad had been a _wreck_. There’s so many memories Dean has lost - stretches of time from Hell, of course, and thank God - but also the normal things - moments of their childhood, and stuff. But this, his first year without Mom - somehow Dean remembers it so well, even if every day he remembers is so precisely like the one that came before it Dean sometimes thinks it’s not memories at all, but sadness and nightmares and sheer make-believe. He remembers Dad crying through the night, hidden away in the bathroom so he and Sam wouldn’t wake up (he never knew Dean was mostly awake, and Dean had never thought to tell him; even as a kid of five, he’d realized this was something his Dad didn’t need to hear). He remembers the smell Dad would carry around - not his normal Dad smell, aftershave and car grease and (sometimes) freshly mown grass, but a different smell - sweat and dirt and something bitter and sugary Dean had been too young to associate with whiskey. And Dean remembers Sam crying and crying and crying; remembers Dad pick him up, smile at Dean (sitting down on the floor with his notebook and his crayons) and then go out for a drive so Sam would fall asleep. Remembers the motel room getting darker and darker as he waited for Dad and Sammy to come back.

But, well. Dad had done the best he could. And Dean has almost stopped resenting him for trying to squash this out of him -

_Hey, you’re getting too old for that shit. You’re a man, now. Just push your brother away - do you want the other kids to make fun of him?_

\- for ordering him to put a stop to Sam’s expansiveness cold turkey.

And Dean had done it, and Sam had stopped. It had taken a few weeks and quite a few Samantha jokes, but he’d really stopped, with all of it - with the hugs out of nowhere and the constant touching of Dean’s (longish) hair, of his clothes; with sitting too close when they were watching TV; with his determination to crawl into Dean’s bed even when the couch was downright comfortable, just because this is how he liked to fall asleep, his face burrowed deep against Dean’s ratty t-shirt and his cold feet resting against Dean’s shins.

Sam had been eight, then.

And after that, nobody had really touched Dean anymore. Not until Robin; not until he’d discovered girls could like him if he raised one eyebrow just right and walked around in his Dad’s leather jacket. And those other things - those men petting his hair and praising him and kissing his forehead, because he’d been so good, and here’s your money - well, that hardly counted at all.

Still, it’s been so long since Dean has felt comfortable around someone - has felt allowed to touch them - that sometimes he thinks he doesn’t know how to anymore. Because, well, he’s been almost there plenty of times - on the very brink of patting Sam’s head when he stands up to do the dishes, and, mostly, just this close to hugging Cas every time Cas decides to show up and instead they stand three feet from each other and Dean has to nod and pretend it’s okay.

Because this is what men do, isn’t it? Dean had allowed himself to be soft around Lisa, because women love this shit, but with Cas -

And it’s not like that, anyway.

There is nothing like that between them.

Dean still remembers that evening in Rexford, Idaho - Dean had taken care of Cas’ hand, turning it this way and that between his own, until the motel room had felt too warm and Cas’ silence almost unbearable.

(Yes, Dean had kept Cas’ hand in his, looked up, licked his lips, and Cas - Cas had stared back at him in his Cas way, his blue eyes huge on his pale face; and Dean had remembered, right there and then, that some dickbag angel had come for Cas because Cas had called him without meaning to - because Cas had been sad and lonely and fucking suicidal - and, well. Dean was not about to drag Cas even deeper into his fucked-up life. So he’d let Cas’ hand go, and they’d gone out for a beer instead.)

He remembers some chick dragging Cas to his feet, forcing him to dance, trying to teach him how. Doing it all wrong. Dean had been sitting with his back against the counter, just looking at the sweet awkwardness of it - Cas moving around in a borrowed _Grateful Dead_ t-shirt, his hands too light on the woman’s waist, his feet all wrong. And she’d been self-conscious and not nearly drunk enough, and, well, maybe she’d seen the way Dean was looking at Cas (the way Cas looked back). Because Dean knew how that was done - could imagine, easy as pie, the texture of Cas’ slacks under his own fingers - could almost feel the weight of Cas’ hips, and how he would have pulled on them, gently but strongly, to encourage Cas to let go, move with the beat. He would have made damn sure Cas knew touching was allowed, pleasant, even. That there was no need to let his own hands almost hover on his partner’s shoulder and waist. That he could anchor himself instead, hold on tight and feel the muscles tightening under the cotton, so he could understand which way his next step should be - backward or forward or -

Yeah, that had never happened. Cas had gotten a peck on the cheek and a bright smile, and he’d returned to his stool looking more confused than ever, and definitely oblivious to Dean’s forced jokes. 

Sam shifts a bit, and now he’s doing that thing he used to do as a kid - he burrows his face deep between Dean’s side and the sheets until only his stupid hair is visible and Dean starts to wonder (as he always did) how the hell his brother can even breathe.

But Sam _can_ breathe. They all _need_ to. They can’t give up - Dean won’t give up, not now. So, sure, they’re in a bad place, but that’s nothing new. They will simply -

Except there is nothing they can _simply_ do.

Amara’s voice flashes inside his ears again, swift and deep like a knife wound - _We’re bonded_ \- and Dean clenches his jaw, his fingers stiffening on Sam’s back.

He’s ashamed at how weak he is. How easy for that thing to make him do exactly what she wants (the taste of her kiss: copper and bitter ash).

But he’s defied Amara twice now, and she’s also a right bitch and all, so. 

And Cas needs him.

Dean forces himself to relax, his head falling back against the wall as he starts to move his hand again - slow, soothing circles between Sam’s shoulder blades which, in the end, seem to slow his own heartbeat as well as Sam’s.

_I’m here_ , Dean thinks, a bit tired and a bit unfocused. _I haven’t given up on you. I’ll find you_.

And then he closes his head and tries to sleep.


	3. Lucifer

“It should be your room,” Sam had said, and Dean had scoffed at him.

“It’s _you_ he wants,” he’d pointed out, and Sam had looked, for a moment, very unwilling to answer that; uncertain and on edge.

The toll of the last few weeks, however, had cut too deep for him to stay silent (to pretend; to spare Dean’s feelings). 

“He’s pretending to be _Cas_ , though. It should be your room,” he’d said, before giving Dean one last, meaningful look and walking out of the kitchen.

And Dean had broken every glass they had. He’d done it because glasses are cheaper and easier to find than alchemy books and armchairs and demon-tracking equipment from the Truman administration, and, really, he had realized how stupid it all was - a lone man on his way to middle-age stomping away in an underground kitchen, throwing a full-blown tantrum - but, well. He still hadn’t cared enough to put a stop to it.

Because Sam hadn’t been wrong.

Lucifer was pretending to be Cas. Lucifer would come in Dean’s room.

Because Cas -

Because Dean -

Not that anything had ever happened. Not that they’d ever discussed it. And now -

Now it was too late.

Dean blinks himself back into the present, looks up at the ceiling.

He doesn’t even know if Cas is still in there somewhere, but he can’t think about the alternative, so.

He tries and focus for a second. The sigils are invisible, of course, but if Dean squints a bit, he can see the vague outline of pencil - Sam had wanted to do this right, and the circle was so big - he’d taken a bit of twine, gone the whole mile with it.

Because Cas - _Lucifer_ \- had been away. 

But he would be back.

(Right?)

And then - well. They have no plan. Dean is just lying in bed, really, waiting for Lucifer to come to the Bunker, to smile his Cas’ smile and speak in his Cas’ voice and then - as Cas always does - to come right here, in this room, to chat with Dean before Dean goes to bed.

It’s so natural - an evolution of that creepy _watching over you_ thing Cas used to do - and Dean likes it. He does. But, more and more, it’s simply not enough. There’s always this moment Cas hesitates, and his speech slows a bit, because he can see, or perhaps even sense, Dean getting more and more tired. This moment he stops speaking altogether, gets up. This moment Dean looks at him and thinks, _Why don’t you stay?_

Right. 

As if.

Cas, of course, has stepped back from Dean’s mind a long time ago. He doesn’t see stuff like this anymore.

(Dean’s absurd, desperate, _pathetic_ longing.)

Or maybe he does, and he’s just ignoring it.

Because, well, it’s not like Dean is worth it.

“He’s getting closer,” says Sam, appearing on the threshold and making Dean jump.

He shakes the headphones off, tries to look as if he hasn’t been thinking about Cas - pining for Cas, as Mildred would put it - for the last hour.

“You can tell?” he asks, because that’s not good news, not at all.

Sam shrugs.

“I sort of - can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“It’s colder,” Sam says, and like that, in his threadbare t-shirt and non-descript boxers and socked feet, he looks about six despite being like nine feet tall.

Dean sees one second of pure panic flash on his face, and he hates Lucifer more than _anything_. More than he’s ever hated Azazel. More than he hates Amara, even.

“Well, it’s one in the morning,” he says, matter-of-factly, ignoring the moment of silence between them - he’s tried speaking about this with Sam before, and Sam doesn’t want to. “He won’t expect us to be up. I say we stay in our rooms, and if he comes in here - good.”

“And if he doesn’t -”

“We’ll do it tomorrow. He hasn’t killed us in our beds so far - why would he do it tonight?”

Sam nods. He looks down the corridor for a moment, at something Dean cannot see from here, but, of course, there’s nothing there. If Lucifer were actually in the Bunker, they would hear him. It’s not like he’s hiding from them, or anything.

Lucifer doesn’t understand these wretched human things - friendship and caring and fucking fighting _back_ \- so it has apparently never occurred to him Crowley would warn them before going to ground; that those naked apes his Father has chosen to rule the world instead of him would have the _courage_ to do something about it, even if they found out. That they would ever _succeed_.

Lucifer is, most of all, proud, and Dean has seen hunters like that and he knows perfectly well pride is more dangerous than a dull blade.

Which means, Lucifer can be defeated, and this is what they’re doing.

(Taking on an archangel. God’s favourite; his best commander. Jesus _fuck_.)

“Go,” says Dean, stretching back again, and Sam goes.

Dean tries to feel it after that. He really does. He puts his headphones on again, but turns the music off. He just lies there, every light on, and tries to feel Lucifer’s coldness approaching.

He doesn’t feel anything, though.

He thinks about Sam, who must be sitting up in bed, doing that nervous thing he does with his jaw when he gets really scared. 

Or maybe he’s praying. Or getting ready to fight.

Neither option makes Dean particularly happy.

Then again, he’s never happy, so.

Before he can dwell on that - and, oh, isn’t it fun - he thinks he hears something. It’s very, very faint, so maybe Dean is just imagining it, but it could be - it could be the front door of the Bunker opening, then closing.

He forces himself to remain still.

Maybe he’s wrong, after all.

Maybe they’re wrong about the whole thing.

Maybe Crowley has been lying to them.

Maybe Cas is just -

And then he hears Cas’ careful steps coming closer and closer, and his throat goes dry.

Because they’re _not_ wrong. Because he’s looked at that thing, and it’s _not_ Cas.

 _Jesus_.

Dean’s hand moves instinctively to his bedside table before remembering he’s moved all the weapons to the desk instead. That he doesn’t need them, because he’s not planning to fight. Not now, at any rate.

And then - _God_ \- then the door is pushed slightly inwards, and this is definitely what Cas does - he never knocks, never remembers to, and Dean has stopped asking. He’s hoped, perhaps, that this one small concession would imply Cas is welcome in Dean’s bedroom, because he sure as hell can’t tell the guy outright. Not yet.

Not, perhaps, ever.

“Dean?” Cas calls softly.

Except it’s not Cas, is it?

Dean closes his right hand into a fist, opens it again.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a bit rough.

“Are you sleeping?”

Dean gets the headphones off, sits up.

Lucifer is standing on the threshold, his face a bit in the shadows because the lights of the Bunker’s corridors are off already, and he -

 _Son of a bitch_.

He has Cas down to the last detail. The way he stands, a bit awkward in his trench coat, the way he looks at Dean - tired and happy to be back.

“Well, I’m not now,” Dean forces himself to say. “What have you been up to?”

Cas still doesn’t move.

“Nothing much,” he says, with some bitterness. “A false lead.”

“Hey, buddy, it happens.”

“I suppose.”

Dean knows he must invite him in; that this the whole point. And yet there is this superstitious fear - the sudden certainty that you don’t invite pure _Evil_ inside your home, inside your goddamn _bedroom_ , no matter the plan, no matter -

“Wanna come in? Talk it out?”

Lucifer smiles now, and Dean’s heart dents a little.

He watches as Lucifer moves forward, shrugs his coat and jacket off, puts them on the chair, making an effort to be neat. This is exactly what Cas does. It’s like Lucifer is reading from a script, which means Dean knows what will happen next - he watches, like he would watch a play, as Lucifer bends down, unties his holy tax accountant shoes, straightens up again, toes them off. He watches as Lucifer takes one more step, and then hesitates, like Cas always does; as he waits for an invitation. 

Dean’s room, after all, has no chairs. The only comfortable place to sit is the bed, and while Cas doesn’t mind doing this with Sam - sit against Sam’s headboard, his shoulder brushing Sam’s, his hands tipping the popcorn bowl a bit so Sam can dip in without taking his eyes off the screen - Cas minds doing this with Dean.

Though _minds_ is not, perhaps, the right word.

Cas _feels_ it, that’s all. He knows - he cannot _not_ know, by now, that if he sits with Dean instead, then every time their shoulders brush Dean gets a slight jolt of electricity down to his toes; that most of the time, Dean doesn’t even watch the movie - he mostly stares at Cas instead, and then back at the screen, fixedly, the tip of his ears a bit red, counting inside his mind how much time has passed, so the next time he glances casually at Cas it will seem random and normal.

Cas must feel it.

He must feel it _back_.

He _must_.

( _Wishful thinking: the attribution of reality to what one wishes to be true or the tenuous justification of what one wants to believe_.)

So Lucifer stops, and Dean, like he always does, smiles up at him.

“Wanna sit down and pick something? You still have to see that last episode from _Game of Thrones_ , right? The third season?”

“The second to last,” Lucifer says, promptly, because, apparently, he’s been through everything - every single one of Cas’ memories - and it makes Dean irrationally angry to think this is all Lucifer sees in Cas - a bunch of memories he can scan in the space of two hours - millions of years reduced to - to -

“I don’t mind rewatching it. It’s a great show.”

Lucifer comes closer, then - miraculously - walks past that point Dean thinks the runes are, sits down on the bed, on the very edge.

But it’s enough. It’s enough, and only a heartbeat later, Lucifer realizes his mistake. He looks up, then at Dean, and now his eyes are not Cas’ anymore. Now there is a sort of cold amusement Dean has never seen in Cas’.

“Yes,” he says, pleasantly. “A great show.”

Then he snaps his fingers, and music starts all around them.

“And that episode is called _The Rains of Castamere_ , is it not? Did you like it?”

Dean doesn’t reply. He’s still sitting on his side of the bed, because this is how Sam drew the wards - all over what Dean thinks of as Cas’ side. Truth is, he’s itching to get away, but he’s also too scared to move.

“ _But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear_ ,” Lucifer sings quietly; and then he frowns. “Come on. Don’t you know the song? I bet we could do a decent thing out of it. Which voice do you want?”

“Give him _back_ ,” says Dean, and he hadn’t planned to say this, not at all, but now Lucifer is actually here, this is all Dean can think about.

He lowers his eyes, because he can’t - he can’t look at this dickbag wearing Cas’ face - he looks at Cas’ hands instead, at the long, graceful fingers; at the fine hair on his forearms.

He remembers the first time he’d ever seen Cas removing his vessel’s clothes. Well, not removing them, exactly - he’s never seen Cas any less than (almost) fully clothed - but that one time - Cas had unbuttoned his shirt, frowned at the white t-shirt underneath, as if surprised to find it there at all - Dean had felt Sam glancing at him, no doubt amused and surprised by angels’ utter disregard for all things human - but Dean hadn’t been able to look back. He hadn’t wanted to share that silent joke at Cas’ expense, not now Cas was possibly about to get hurt - for them - again; and seeing Cas casually displaying this body he’d claimed for himself - seeing him -

“Here,” Cas had said, producing a very fine knife out of thin air. “The lines must be exact, Dean.”

Dean had accepted the knife, his fingers lingering for only a second on top of Cas’ - they’d been warm and soft and perfectly human - before moving away.

“This is insane,” he’d said, because it had never seemed like a good idea to begin with, but now they were actually doing it, it’d been even worse.

“It’s the only way.”

God, Cas had been one toppy bastard back then.

“Dude, I’m not - do you seriously want me to cut into your skin?”

Sam had glanced at him again, and, this time, Dean hadn’t known, or wanted to know, what Sam was thinking.

“This is just a vessel,” Cas had said. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Yeah, so it hadn’t hurt Cas; it’d still hurt _Dean_ , though, because this was what the bastard hadn’t understood (and still doesn’t) - how much Dean had worried (how much he still worries) - how _scared_ he is that Cas will die again, that next time - next time -

Dean keeps his eyes on Cas’ pale skin as he remembers what it had been like - to splay his palm against Cas’ chest, to carve those symbols over his ribs, his heart -

 _It’s not my heart_ , Cas would have said, because, of course, he was a true gold medalist in not getting the point of things.

Lucifer laughs, the sound loud and clear over the violins still playing in the background.

“That is what you care about?” he asks, good-naturedly. “The Darkness is loose upon the world, and this is what matters? The life of an ordinary angel?”

“He’s _not_ -” starts Dean, hotly, raising his eyes, and then he stops, because, of course, he’s played exactly into Lucifer’s hands.

“He’s not what?” asks Lucifer, and now he’s downright playful. “Ordinary?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“What is he, then? Special?”

“You’re not getting out,” Dean says, “until you give him back. So tone down the attitude.”

“Technically, he’s never left,” says Lucifer, and now his eyes shift, just a bit, and Dean can see Cas - he’d been about to up and leave, because sharing a bed with Lucifer is the very first item of whatever the opposite of a bucket list is, but he freezes mid-movement when he sees Cas’ blue eyes, the humanity in them.

“Dean,” Cas says, but, before he can add anything else, Lucifer takes the reins back.

“None of that,” he scolds, softly, and, again, Dean feels like reaching for a weapon. “Now, where were we?”

Dean sits back down, his headphones suddenly too heavy and too hot around his neck.

“Cas, I’m staying,” he says, the pronouncement way more grand than he’d meant it because of the bloody violins still going at it; playing a funeral march for a prince long dead; for someone, in fact, that never existed at all. “I’m not leaving you with him. We’ll get you back, okay? I don’t care what happened - we’ll fix it.”

“Isn’t that _adorable_ ,” says Lucifer, with a smile. “You Winchesters are fascinating creatures. Hubris and deluded hope and bucketloads of self-loathing. A dangerous combination.”

Keeping his eyes on Dean, he stretches down on his side of the bed, crosses his arms behind his head.

“Know any sleepover games?” he asks, but Dean ignores him.

 _Just - just hold on_ , he thinks, and he fancies he can almost feel a kind of warmth pushing back against his thoughts, which is why he takes it just a bit further. 

_I need you_ back _, man_.

And, yes, that’s definitely warmth and light, right there. 

Dean swallows a bit thickly, almost smiles.

It’s going to be one hell of a long night, though.


	4. Cas

Dean is afraid Cas won’t come into his room anymore. After all, he’s been trapped in it three days as Lucifer was fighting tooth and nail to stay right fucking there - as he taunted Dean and threatened Sam and said things both of them would rather forget.

To be honest, he’s not sure if he wants to stay in the room _himself_. Those are pretty bleak memories, after all; but, somehow, they haven’t erased those _other_ memories - first finding the Bunker, of course - a place they could make a home of - choosing a new mattress, getting his clothes into an actual dresser for the first time ever -

And, of course, those other _other_ memories as well. 

Cas smiling at him from the threshold as Dean showed him the place. Cas coming in, sitting down on the bed (on the left side). Cas still being there in the morning after a particularly demanding _Star Trek_ marathon, his hand by his side, fingers spread open on the sheet, just one inch away from Dean’s arm.

(And, fucking hell, isn’t that distance everything? How is it that it’s so difficult to _touch_ someone - to close your hand over his because it feels right and it’s long overdue and it’s just a _hand_ for fuck’s sake - how is it that such a small distance, one inch of white cotton, can seem as wide as the fucking Grand Canyon? Can change, in fact, _everything_?)

No, Dean doesn’t feel like moving. And he’s afraid, in any case - afraid Cas will ask him why he’s moving, afraid Cas won’t understand how much it matters to Dean that Cas should feel welcome in Dean’s room.

And this is why when the movie is over and Sam goes back to the kitchen to do the dishes before they get too gross and Cas remains right there, his eyes a bit too big on his face (Dean could swear he’s lost weight, though, of course, that is not possible - Cas never eats, Cas is not -), Dean yawns, leans back.

“So, you got plans for tonight?” he asks, and then realizes how much it sounded like a come-on, gives himself a mental, sarcastic pat on the back.

God, this thing is _definitely_ getting out of hand.

“I - no,” Cas says, without turning away from the now empty patch on the wall.

“You okay, man?”

They’ve never really talked about this.

In fact, Dean is trying to ignore the subject, because they’d had to leave right after Lucifer had been kicked back in the Cage - Jody had called them in a panic, had screamed inside the phone, which wasn’t like her at all, and there hadn’t even been a question of waiting - but still, during the whole car ride there and the whole car ride back, and during that one achy and exhausted night in an unfamiliar bed, all Dean had been able to think about had been Cas.

He’d seen what was left of people being possessed. He remembered what Sam had been like after Gadreel had left. All he’d wanted had been to make sure, quite sure, that Cas -

But, well, so they’d made it back and Cas was Cas. A bit grumpy, a bit sad, but completely himself. And Dean is still too angry at himself to even broach the subject.

Cas shrugs.

“I was the one to invite him in,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if he deserved any of this.

“It helped,” says Dean, a bit more forcefully than he’d intended. “He went through our papers and books - he found the Hand of God, Cas, you know that. And as soon as we have it -”

“Any angel can wield it,” says Cas, in the same flat voice. “And the Darkness will be defeated.”

“You could sound a bit more enthusiastic about it,” snaps Dean, and then immediately realizes how that sounded, and, God, why is he always such an asshole?

Cas finally turns to look at him.

“Sorry. I’m just tired,” he says. “Waiting for you both to wake up is - lonely.”

 _Jesus_.

This, right here, is the moment to say it; to do something decent for fucking once.

Dean licks his lips, hesitates for only a second before getting up, keeping his hands resolutely busy (he grabs the empty bottles on the table, tries to balance the popcorn bowl on top of them), blurting out the only possible reply.

“You can stay with us, if you want. I mean - with me.”

He can feel Cas’ gaze upon him still, but he can’t look back at him.

“I mean, I’d still need my four hours, but you could - listen to music, or - whatever. I don’t mind.”

Dean feels stupid to just stand there and wait for an answer, so he tries to smile, as if this is no big deal, before turning around and making his way to the kitchen.

“Thank you,” says Cas, before Dean can reach the door. “That would be - helpful.”

And so Dean puts the bottles in the trash and the bowl in the sink, making Sam bitch about it because Sam has a system or something, and now the bowl is on top of stuff he’s already scrubbed clean, and, Jesus _Christ_ , it’s not like the thing is _dirty_ , it’s corn and salt, after all, and why must Sam bitch about _everything_ \- Dean distinctly remembers a toddler Sam, a creature which could barely walk and talk and was already scoffing at him and Dad for putting the Duplos in the wrong place or some shit - Sam denies that, as if he could remember anything about it, and Dean grabs a towel, starts drying the dishes as he describes, in loving detail, what a pain in the ass Sam had actually been as a kid.

Because he will not look at Cas, who’s now leaning against the door, listening to them bicker away at each other.

He can’t.

And then Cas disappears, and Sam goes to bed, and Dean brushes his teeth, takes a hot, scalding shower, because he’s suddenly cold. He makes his way back to his room. 

Finds it empty.

He sits down on the bed (on the right side), reaches one hand to the bedside table lamp to turn it off, stops in mid-movement.

He _wants_ Cas here. He _really_ wants Cas here. 

He thinks about getting up again, going back through the bluish lights of the Bunker to look for Cas, then decides against it. He’s invited the guy to come to his room, and if Cas doesn’t want to, then -

“Dean? Are you sleeping?”

 _God_.

“I - no. Come in.”

Dean has a single, painful flashback of Lucifer saying exactly the same words, and possibly Cas reads the moment in the tightening of Dean’s shoulders, because when Dean turns around, Cas is standing uncertainly near the dresser, his hand in his pockets.

Dean just looks at him.

 _God_.

He looks so _vulnerable_ , and Dean’s heart aches to - to -

But this is not what they are. Or what Cas wants.

“Do you need a sleep t-shirt, or something?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at the dresser.

“No,” says Cas, and he sorts or relaxes - God, was he expecting to be sent away? - his hands now moving on the buttons of his shirt. “I’ve got mine.”

Dean can’t watch this: Cas undressing - well, not for _him_ , exactly, but still, Cas undressing because he’s spending the night in here with him. He stands up instead, moves to close the door - Cas has left it open: was that a message of sorts, an _I don’t expect we’ll do anything Sam can’t witness?_

 _Cas doesn’t think like that_ , Dean chides himself, splaying his hand against the wood to stop it from trembling. _He doesn’t. Man up, for fuck’s sake._

When he turns around again, Cas is already in bed (on the left side). He adjusts the covers, then looks here and there, as if searching for something.

“Do you want my iPod? Or you prefer to watch a show?”

“Music, I think. If you don’t mind.”

Dean sort of smiles; he forces himself to take a step, then another.

 _Jesus_. It’s not like they haven’t done this before, after all. So, okay, they’ve done it accidentally, because Dean is human and there’s only so many episodes of _Star Trek_ he can watch, especially after an evening spent chasing a vengeful ghost, but still, it’s nothing new. It’s nothing that will spin the Earth off its axis, or anything.

It’s just two friends, sharing a bed.

Just that.

And it’s a big bed.

No need for it to get weird.

No, if this is what Cas needs, Cas will fucking get it, and Dean will get over his irrational gay panic (his need to touch Cas, that is; his need to feel Cas’ warm skin under his own fingers and hope - hope -).

And so Dean keeps moving, sits down on the bed, bends down slightly to get the iPod out of the drawer, and then - then he slides right under the covers, his left leg brushing against Cas’ for a second before Dean turns around, leans on his left elbow, starts to disentangle the headphones cord.

“Here,” says Cas, and he moves so he’s facing Dean; reaches out with his left hand, passes it over the mess, and the thing is suddenly pristine again. 

Dean stares down at it, then back at Cas, even if Cas is way too close, and looking at him is doing funny things to Dean’s stomach.

“Wait,” he says, “you could do this all along?”

Cas makes his puzzled face.

“Is it important?”

“ _Dude_! This is like - our number one problem as a _species_. I can’t believe I spent all that time getting these damn things out of knots and you were just _sitting_ there!”

Cas is smiling now, and this is essential; it is, in fact, _everything_.

“I apologize,” he says. “I had no idea you were in distress.”

“I really was, though.”

“I can make you a list, if you wish.”

“A list?” asks Dean, his hand moving up, placing one bud in Cas’ left ear; pressing it in.

“Of what I can do.”

Dean’s mouth twitches.

“You do that.”

“It shouldn’t take me more than - twenty years, perhaps?”

“Yeah? Will that include ‘staring creepily at people’ and ‘not getting movie references’?”

Cas raises his own hand up to adjust the bud, but his fingers catch Dean’s wrist instead. Neither of them move away.

“That is not longer true. Well, the second one.”

Dean licks his lips.

“ _The answer is out there, and it’s looking for you_ ,” he quotes, and there is something of a challenge in his voice.

“ _And it will find you if you want it to_ ,” Cas replies, cocking his head, very slightly, to one side, like he used to do in the very beginning.

Dean pauses, but, goddamn it, if they’re making a game out of this, he’s not fucking _losing_ it. He’s the actual human here, after all.

“ _It’s only after we’ve lost everything_ ,” he says, jutting his chin out, trying to ignore how hot Cas’ fingers are on his wrist.

“ _That we’re free to do anything_.”

“ _If this works -_ ”

“ _\- you get to be Postmaster General_ ,” says Cas, and now his thumb is starting to trace small circles on the inside of Dean’s wrist, and Dean can’t -

“ _Shut up. Just shut up_ ,” he says, his voice barely over a whisper.

Something softens inside Cas’ eyes.

“ _You had me at_ Hello,” he says, just as softly.

And since this is a game, maybe Dean can say it - the words have been sitting so heavily inside his chest - and he would never, _ever_ dare to - except this is not him, is it? He can pretend, for a second longer, that this is all they’re doing - playing - that Cas’ gaze isn’t flickering to Dean’s hand as if - _God help me_ \- he’s contemplating actually kissing his palm - 

“ _I love you_ ,” he says, and his voice catches, becomes this barely there, strangled thing.

“ _I know_ ,” Cas replies, obediently, and Dean loses it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, brokenly, his hand reaching up, touching Cas’ cheek. “For everything. For forcing you to choose, for dragging you away from Heaven, for - God, I am such a _dick_ to you, and I’m sorry - everything is my fault, and - Cas -”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas says, frowning slightly, and then he does it - turns against Dean’s hand, kisses his palm, very lightly. “You didn’t force me to do anything. I stand by my choices. They were good ones.”

“I - when you were human, I wanted - I never -”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Cas again, his words a light tingle against Dean’s skin. 

“I never wanted you to leave,” tries Dean again, miserably, and then he closes the distance between them, moves his hand against Cas’ jaw, leans in. “I never wanted you to leave.”

“I know. It’s okay, Dean,” says Cas, even if it’s not okay, because Dean is drowning now, because everything is too much, and when he finally gets close enough to Cas’ mouth to kiss him, he’s trembling.

It doesn’t matter, though, because Cas’ mouth is soft and warm and wonderful, and Dean feels like he could laugh and cry and just die, right in this moment.

“Hey,” says Cas, drawing back slightly. “Are you shaking?”

“No,” Dean lies.

“You're shaking,” Cas insists, and Dean keeps his eyes closed, seeks out Cas’ mouth again, blindly, desperately.

“I don't think so,” he murmurs, against Cas’ lips.

They kiss again, and this time, Dean feels Cas’ left hand come up against the nape of his neck; Cas’ fingers tugging slightly on his hair.

“You're cold,” says Cas wonderingly, and there is something so breathless in his voice that Dean shivers all over.

“I don't think I am.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

And, God, how can Cas be millions of years old and not _get_ this? That Dean loves him so much he will possibly, probably _die_ from it?

“I don't know,” he whispers, looking at Cas’ eyes in the semi-darkness; at the lights and shadows deep inside them. “I think I'm happy.”

Cas smiles at him, and as they kiss again, he rolls back, pulls Dean on top of him - and Dean allows him to, because this, right here - he’s wanted this so much, and for such a long time, he can’t even -

Pushing his legs on either side of Cas’ waist, he moves his hands to cup Cas’ cheeks; feels, again, Cas’ fingers coming up to grasp his hair; and for a second he can almost kid himself that this enough, that he could do this, kiss Cas, feel Cas’ face, the light stubble, against his palm, and Cas’ teeth pulling gently on his lips, and Cas’ body, solid and - and safe, somehow, under his own - that all of this will be enough -

But it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. When Dean starts licking inside Cas’ mouth, Cas moans lightly, a sound of joy and greed, and Dean’s dick goes from very interested to _I need this right fucking now_ , and so Dean moves back, slides slightly down Cas’ body, because he knows, he can feel, that Cas is hard, and if he has to wait another second to touch him there he won’t actually survive this, any of it -

“Dean,” says Cas, when Dean starts mouthing at his neck, and it sounds like a prayer.

“Anything,” he answers. “Anything you want.”

Cas sighs, his hands now moving across Dean’s back, his thumbs first hitching inside the waistband of Dean’s pajama pants, then coming up instead, tugging at Dean’s t-shirt.

“Get it off,” he says, in a deep, ruined voice that sends shivers all the way to Dean’s toes. “Get everything off. I want to see you.”

Dean was never shy in bed, but there is still a moment of hesitation when he sits up on Cas’ hips and closes his hands on top of Cas’ first, then on the soft cotton; he pauses, tries to catch his breath, because this is not some hook-up in the back of his car, this is - this is everything. This is forever.

“You too,” he whispers, his own voice almost a normal voice, but, fuck it, this is not normal - they haven’t done anything, not yet, this shouldn’t be -

And then Cas gets impatient - he sits up slightly, snapping his fingers in the process, and Dean doesn’t even need to see it - he can _feel_ Cas’ clothes disappear against his own skin, and now it becomes urgent to be naked as well, because he needs, in a primal, essential way, to feel Cas’ skin against his own.

“Fuck,” he says, bending down slightly, trying to kiss Cas while taking his own t-shirt off. “Fuck, you’re -”

But, whatever else Cas is, he's no help. No, Cas is no help at all, because as soon as a new bit of Dean’s skin is uncovered, he passes his fingers on it, tracing Dean’s stomach, his navel, the curve of his ribs - placing his mouth on Dean’s nipple as Dean’s head is still trapped inside the t-shirt - Dean ends up almost tearing the damn thing apart, because that’s _unfair_ \- he doesn’t even realize, won’t realize until later, how difficult it is for Cas not to undress him with a snap of his fingers - to just wait for this slow, ungainly human to do things the human way, so that Cas could be sure Dean really wanted it.

As if there could be any doubt. Any doubt at all.

“So that’s the way you wanna play it, uh?” Dean says, breathing hard, and then he shuffles off Cas’ body, gets his stupid pants off, and when he feels Cas on top of him, he hooks his arms under Cas’ legs, half forces, half encourages him to move upwards, because Dean will fucking _show_ him - because he won’t be the only one to be unmanned by this.

And when Dean reaches out, licks the tip of Cas’ dick, Cas breathes out, loud and shameless, almost as if he’s surprised by the intensity of it. His hips moves forward, a slight, instinctive movement, and Dean takes advantage of it to mouth at the rest of it - to take Cas in his mouth as he looks up at the beautiful body on top of him, at the straight line of Cas’ neck as Cas arches his head back in pleasure.

“Dean,” he says again, and then he looks down, his face half in light, half in shadow, his eyes so blue they’re almost shining, the way they do when Cas’ Grace is full and violent against this frail human body he’s forcing himself into (for Dean).

Dean moans at the sight, even if a distant part of his brain is spinning and spinning and warning him that this could be dangerous.

He ignores it.

Cas will not hurt him. Cas will _never_ hurt him.

Dean’s had an unusual life, and he isn’t sure about much, but he trusts in this - that Cas will never hurt him, and that he himself will never stop loving Cas, because Cas - Dean licks a long, wet strip on the soft skin of his dick, then tips his head back.

“I meant it,” he says, “before.”

Cas seems to not understand for one full second, because he’s breathing hard now, and his eyes are still a bit too blue, a bit too bright - but then he moves down Dean’s body, reaches for Dean’s shoulder as their mouths collide, way too forcefully (Dean won’t find any bruises in the morning, and he will swallow down his disappointment - he knows Cas can’t stand to see Dean’s skin blooming with black and blue, because he’s seen it too many times before; knows this is the deal - for Cas to heal him when Dean is sleeping, even if for Dean, these memories of fingers and teeth are a sign of love, a badge he’d be happy and proud to carry), and Dean’s arms come up to hug Cas tight, even if they’re already as close as two people can be.

“I know,” says Cas, touching their foreheads together. “I’ve known for a long time. I was - hoping - you would one day give in to it.”

“You _idiot_ ,” says Dean, softly. “You know I’m no good with this stuff. If you knew - if you _wanted_ this - why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought -”

Cas stops, and something dark flashes in his eyes. Dean tightens his arms around him.

“You thought what?”

“That maybe you weren’t saying anything because you wanted it to go away. Wanted me to go away.”

“ _Cas_.”

Dean moves his arms up, over Cas’ arms, his shoulder, until he can cup his face.

“I would _never_ \- I _always_ \- God, you’re _such_ an idiot.”

It’s not very articulate, maybe, and it doesn’t help that both of them are still hard and pressed against each other, but Cas seems to understand the sentiment. 

“I love you too,” he says, and Dean forces his head down, not that there’s any forcing involved, and kisses him deeply, reaching down between them to stroke both their dicks in a slow, messy way.

They will do, he thinks, everything. There is still a war on, and they may both die tomorrow, but they will still do - everything, because Dean wants to do _everything_ with Cas; has spent years, in fact, thinking about it, and hearing those words out loud - Dean has sometimes thought he’d heard them, or seen them - there was sometimes a kind of warmth between them when Cas looked at him that way, his smile hurt and soft, his eyes full to the brim - but _hearing_ the words, seeing Cas’ slightly chapped lips give them form and meaning - Dean wants this, right now, to be sweet. He’s almost lost his head once or twice in the last half an hour, he’s been overwhelmed and greedy, but that’s not - this is the right way. This is what they both need right now.

And so he continues to move his hand, slow and loving, as Cas licks inside his mouth, pushes his face against Dean’s like a cat, breathes softly in Dean’s ear; and when Cas stiffens in anticipation, Dean looks up at his face, watches him go through it, and it’s as beautiful as he’d always imagined it would be; this alien being, this incredibly powerful creature, losing himself in the palm of Dean’s hand; giving in to pleasure in the same unrestrained, unbridled way he’s always run into the fray.

Dean brings his other hand up from Cas’ back, hugs him so tightly, pressing his forearm against the nape of Cas’ neck, that he can feel their two hearts beat as one as he comes as well, breathless and happy and almost sure he will cry from the intensity of it.

Cas, here, in his arms.

Cas, his.

“I really, really meant it,” he says, swallowing thickly against the tears. “I really - _fuck_.”

“I love you too,” says Cas again; and then he adds, in that secret, dark place that is the space between Dean’s jaw and his neck, “I think I’ve loved you for a long time.”


	5. Mary

When the alarm goes off, Dean wakes from a dream of flying and finds his mouth full of blond, curly hair.

Groaning, he shifts to his right side to turn the alarm off.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, reaching blindly for his unexpected guest. “Time to get up.”

The reply consists entirely of consonants. Dean chuckles; then he stretches, slow and happy, tries again.

“Don’t you want breakfast? We’re making waffles today.”

That gets a more excited reply.

“Waffles?”

Dean lifts himself up on one elbow and looks down.

The scruffy duvet on his left twists and turns on itself until it resolves into Mary’s sleepy face. She still looks as if she’s trying to decide whether to wake up or not, and Dean’s smile widens. Eight years, and he’s still not used to this.

“Yes, waffles. Come on, sleepyhead. Today’s a special day, remember?”

Mary blinks, and then her eyes widen slightly. All of a sudden, she’s sitting up and pawing at the other side of the bed.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asks, almost panicking. “Is he up already? Dad - we were supposed to get breakfast ready before - did we _miss_ him?”

Dean shakes his head slightly, and then he finally stands up, moves to the window.

“Daddy had to go in early,” he says, drawing the curtains open.

As usual, he takes the time to admire the landscape beyond the window - it’s nothing much, perhaps - a long stretch of meadows and fields and forests, and the wide clouds in the distance, heavy with unfallen snow - it’s not Heaven, but Cas likes it well enough, and after all they’ve been through, it's more than Dean ever expected they would have. He only indulges in his morning ritual for a second, however, because Mary is now wide awake and going ten thousand miles a minute.

“What happens, then?” she asks, climbing off the bed, running towards him, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt. “Can he come back for breakfast? What time is it? What if we can’t make the waffles in time? Did you remember the flowers?”

Dean puts a hand on the top of her head, tousles her hair.

“We have time, don’t worry. Why don’t you wash your face and get started on the table? I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I bet you forgot the flowers,” she mumbles, in a sort of stage whisper, as she walks away. “You _always_ forget things.”

“Hey, I heard that! And I do not, and I did not.”

But Dean lets her walk away. He doesn’t ask her about the nightmare; he’s not sure it’s a good idea to bring it up. It’s possible Mary has forgotten already, and, anyway, those are normal nightmares. Childhood stuff. Last time she’d pushed her way into their bed, she’d mentioned something about blue spiders before falling asleep, Cas’ warm hand tracing comforting circles on her back.

No, it’s nothing to be worried about. Nothing like the nightmares he used to have, because, well, life is different now and Dean is slowly beginning to get used to it.

They made it out.

They really made it out.

And, somehow, it all came true - Sam and Eileen even got a dog - Dean had rolled his eyes at that, because, _really_? A dog living in the Bunker? But, so far, it’s working out. Mary loves it, of course, but it’s not like they need more animals, and Dean isn’t a huge fan of dogs, anyway. They’ve got five (sometimes seven) cats, a pen of assorted rodenty things (guinea pigs and floppy-eared rabbits and a huge son of a bitch Cas insisted needed to be rehomed and is quite possibly a capybara) and they’re working their way up to donkeys and horses. A dog is definitely the _last_ thing they need.

Turning their house into a zoo hadn’t been in the cards - at all. Cas had insisted to give him a full physical after the final battle against Amara, and, somehow (his hand had slipped, perhaps), he’d healed Dean’s allergies. And then, as soon as they’d found this place, he had started to bring stray cats home. Just a coincidence, obviously. It’s not like Cas had planned it all from the start.

Not at all.

Cas is honest and worthy. He’d never plot something as underhanded as that.

Dean had been mildly exasperated at first, because fixing a house with three tiny kittens snaking around your legs isn’t the easiest job in the world, but, well. It was also something he could get used to.

And then, as soon as Dean had begrudgingly admitted the cats were sort of okay - Cas had given him a playful nudge, just a push of his naked foot against Dean’s thigh, but Vanilla had been asleep on Dean’s chest at the time, so Dean hadn’t moved -

(Cas had paid for his wiseassery later that night, though.)

\- then things had gotten weird. Because Cas had hypnotized his way into opening a small veterinary practice, and, almost at once, that had evolved into ‘rehoming’ anything that came through its doors - every sad and hurt and lost creature nobody else wanted. And by rehoming, Cas mostly meant, ‘right here with us’.

And now, well, it’s too late to stop any of it. Mary loves it, of course, always did - Dean remembers her crawling around the rabbits pen as a toddler, her dungarees turning white with sawdust, her laughter a clear, joyous sound which had nested inside Dean’s heart and twisted it around until he hadn’t been able to breathe.

Because Mary hadn’t been planned either (not that Dean hadn’t _wanted_ \- but, well: add that to the list of things he’d never thought he deserved, not after everything). No, they’d found her soon after that final battle - the lone survivor of a demonic tornado (Crowley had been magnificent throughout it all, but, well, he’d always had the tendency of letting things get out of hand, and that is probably why Sam never wants him around for Christmas - not that anyone ever listens to him) which had flattened a whole town of possessed, crazy people, and, well. He and Cas had been together for barely three months, by then - it’d been crazy, and way too soon for a child, and a thousand other things. But, of course, Dean had still picked up the baby, had felt Cas’ eyes on him, and he’d just known. 

So Mary had stayed.

Sam had teased the hell out of them both, and drawn the line at changing diapers, but Dean hadn’t cared at all.

“Dad!”

Yes. The waffles.

Apparently this year they’re having waffles for Valentine's day. And chocolate mousse. And roses on the table, because, well, his daughter may have no confidence in his abilities whatsoever, but Dean hasn’t forgotten about the flowers.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls back, slipping into a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt.

Mary has gotten quite competent with the batter, but she’s still a bit wary of the hot iron, so that’s Dean’s job. 

He doesn’t mind. 

In fact, lately he’s been seeing it more and more clearly - the time is fast approaching when Mary will be a cocksure teenager; when Mary won’t seem to need him at all - and the perspective is slightly bittersweet. So, well, as long as Mary will need him - if she wants to climb inside their bed after a nightmare, if she’s a bit scared of knives and matches and bugs, if she can’t braid her own hair without making a huge mess - Dean will be there for her. It’s not even a question.

As he steps into the landing, he hears the tell-tale, soft sound of wings and leans back, right into Cas’ chest.

“Good morning,” he says, stretching back, cat-like, into Cas’ arms, exposing his throat so that Cas can lean forward and kiss his neck.

“Happy Valentine,” says Cas, his voice rumbling against Dean’s skin.

“Are you finished, then? With your big emergency?”

Cas closes his hands around Dean’s waist, brings him back more closely against his own body.

“Not quite yet. But I thought we could have breakfast together.” 

They still have the car, of course - Cas’ huge, ungainly Continental. And Cas does use it, mostly because he likes to drive but also because they’re sort of trying to fit in. This is a different world, after all. There are no more monsters. Well: not big ones. Now Cas has his wings back, though, he will sometimes pop back to the house for a cup of coffee or a chat or a hot and dirty quickie against the kitchen table. And Dean is grateful, okay? He _is_. It’s just that this makes planning surprises a little more difficult.

Then again, Dean has been a hunter for more than twenty years. Sneaky is his middle name.

“Why don’t you get us some coffee, then?”

“What’s wrong with our coffee?”

“It’s a holiday. I could use a good espresso.”

Cas stops nibbling at Dean’s skin to let out his trademark, fake-exasperated sigh.

“Dean, I am still a seraph, and my wings are the physical manifestation of my Grace. I fail to see why I should use them to get you a cup of coffee from Naples when we have a perfectly good coffee maker right here.”

Dean knows the game well. It’s not the first time they play.

So he turns around in Cas’ arms, pushes him against the wall, mouths at his jaw.

“I know that. But I will be so _grateful_ if you do.”

Cas lets his head fall back.

“How grateful?” he asks, closing his eyes, and Dean cups him through his green hospital slacks.

“Only one way to find out,” he breathes, and Cas shudders.

And then, before they can get carried away, Mary’s voice rings up the stairs.

“Dad! I can’t find the cinnamon!”

Dean presses a quick kiss to Cas’ lips, and then walks away before he has to watch Cas disappear, because, yeah, he will never like that part.

(It’s fine, though. Cas is coming back. Cas always comes back now.)

“That,” he says, walking into the kitchen, “is the best table I’ve ever seen.”

Mary beams at him, and, yeah, she should totally be proud of this - there are red paper hearts all over the dark wood, and something that may be glitter sprinkled over the fruit bowl (which means those apples will need thorough washing before Dean gets started on the pie he’s planned) and a huge card with more hearts and more glitter propped up against Cas’ bumblebee cup.

“Really, kid, you should do this for a living,” says Dean, padding to the kitchen and grabbing the cinnamon from the spice rack.

“You say that about _everything_ ,” Mary scolds him, but she’s clearly pleased.

“Well, not my fault you’re such a genius, is it?”

Mary then starts on a convoluted story about the glitter - apparently, Gail has given it to her, but Mary had to lend her her own dolphin cutter in exchange, which is not ideal because she was planning to decorate her diary in the afternoon - as Dean cuts up the strawberries and plugs the waffle iron in.

“Gail said she’d give it back tomorrow - can she come here to play with the bunnies, Dad?”

“Sure.”

“And can she stay for dinner?” says Mary, pressing her advantage.

Dean hums, distracted. Cas should be back by now.

_Shit_ , he’s almost forgotten about the roses.

“How about the night?”

“Nice try,” he says, trying to regain control over the conversation. “Tomorrow is Monday, monkey. No sleepovers on school nights.”

Mary opens her mouth, clearly about to argue against what is a perfectly sensible rule, but Dean shakes his head.

“She can come over on Friday,” he says, firmly. “Come on, I need to get Daddy’s flowers from the barn - can you man the kitchen for two minutes?”

Mary frowns in concentration as she considers this, because she’s just like Cas, attentive and fastidious and very, very serious most of the time; she takes it all in - the garishly pink table, the stack of warm waffles, the bowl of homemade chocolate mousse - and then nods.

“Hurry,” she says, a bit anxiously, because, really, it’s nearly seven thirty now and Cas could be here any second.

And, sure enough, by the time Dean is stepping on the porch stairs again, a huge bouquet of red roses in his hand, Cas walks out the front door a smiles down at him.

“Are those for me?”

“Are you kidding?” says Dean, his lips twitching. “I got them for the cute neighbour I’m fooling around with. You caught me.”

_Red-handed_ , he’d been about to say, but he’s trying to cut down on the puns lately because Mary is becoming a bitch face champion and Dean doesn’t want to encourage her. Having Sam around is bad enough - he doesn’t need _two_ people rolling their eyes at him.

Cas frowns.

“Our closest neighbour is Matthew, and he’s seventy years old,” he points out.

“So I like my men a bit older,” Dean smirks, now walking up to Cas, tugging on his wind-swept hair. “Sue me.” 

Cas, however, is distracted. He looks away, then down.

“What is it?” asks Dean, tilting Cas’ head back up.

“I - I went to the post office, earlier.”

“It’s Sunday,” says Dean, slow excitement starting to pool deep in his stomach.

“I can walk through walls, Dean,” Cas replies, deadpan. “I can also _read_ through walls.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re awesome. So?”

Cas licks his lips - a nervous gesture he picked up from Dean, and this will never not move him to the bone.

“The papers are here,” he says, softly, and Dean feels his throat go dry.

“They are?” he asks, awed.

Cas nods.

“They must have arrived last thing on Friday. We can pick them up tomorrow.”

“Fuck that. What - what did they say?”

Again, Cas looks at Dean, then away. Dean keeps staring at his face, though - Cas is still as handsome as he’d been when he’d first walked in that barn, but he’s allowing his body to age so he can match Dean’s, and Dean loves it - the way his stubble is going slightly grey, those faint lines at the corner of his eyes. Without tearing his eyes away, Dean finds Cas’ hand, laces their fingers together.

“They said yes,” Cas finally says, and there is such raw emotion in his voice Dean’s hand tightens on top of his. “They’re expecting us next Friday to sign the last forms, and to - decide on a date.”

They remain silent for a full minute, both flabbergasted by the scale of the thing.

“Fuck,” says Dean in the end, and, really, that’s exactly how he’s feeling.

_Fuck_.

“So that’s it. That’s really it. Two more girls in the house. Fucking _twins_. We’re gonna be outnumbered, man,” he adds, and Cas smiles at him.

“Do you want a boy next? To balance things out?”

“ _Next?_ ”

“You _did_ mention once you wanted ‘enough kids to make a goddamn baseball team’,” Cas point out, reasonably, and Dean gapes at him.

“I was _drunk_ ,” he says, and then he forces the flowers in Cas’ arms. “Jesus, let me - let’s see how this goes first.”

This is a battle he’ll lose, though. He can smell it from here. 

And, fuck, he _does_ love children. He loves looking after Mary - cooking with her, and playing with her, and getting to bed smelling like pie, his nails still a bit blue from some polish she’d absolutely _had_ to try on him first.

“You _know_ how this goes,” says Cas, mildly, and it’s right there, in his eyes - how this goes is that they love each other, and that they will keep loving each other; that everything else - the darkness, the monsters, the demons - is all gone, and now is a time for different things - for flowers and children and even more floppy-eared rabbits, if this is what Cas wants.

Because Cas is Cas, and he deserves everything.

And those rabbits _are_ kind of cute.

Not that Dean will ever admit it (especially to Sam).

“I’m freezing my butt off out here,” says Dean, after a short silence; but, as he walks past Cas, Cas grabs him, kisses him lightly on the lips.

“Thanks for this. It’s the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

“You say that every damn year,” Dean replies, getting a hand on Cas’ waist, turning slightly away from him as he pulls Cas towards the house.

“I could say that every day,” Cas counters. “Every day with you is perfection.”

Dean’s ears go slightly red, and, really, he can’t say it right now, because he’s still weird about this, and it’s still hard to say it like that, casually, when it’s light outside and there is a whole world around them; and so he thinks it - _God, I love you so_ damn _much_ \- and Cas grabs Dean’s hand, laces their fingers together once again.

_Me too_ , is what that means. _Me too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading. If you want to chat about cats or rodents or ancient magic or the US elections, come find me on tumblr @awed-frog. Who needs real life, anyway? :)
> 
>  
> 
> Movie Quotes
> 
>  
> 
> _The Matrix_ , 1999  
> Trinity: The answer is out there, Neo, and it's looking for you, and it will find you if you want it to. 
> 
> _Fight Club_ , 1999  
> Tyler Durden: It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. 
> 
> _Air Force One_ , 1997  
> President James Marshall: If this works, you get to be Postmaster General. 
> 
> _Jerry Maguire_ , 1996  
> Jerry Maguire: I love you. You - you complete me. And I just -  
> Dorothy: Shut up, just shut up. You had me at Hello.
> 
> _Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back_ , 1980  
> Princess Leia: I love you.  
> Han Solo: I know.
> 
> _Say Anything_ , 1989  
> Diane Court: Are you shaking?  
> Lloyd Dobler: No.  
> Diane Court: You're shaking.  
> Lloyd Dobler: I don't think so.  
> Diane Court: You're cold.  
> Lloyd Dobler: I don't think I am.  
> Diane Court: Then why are you shaking?  
> Lloyd Dobler: I don't know. I think I'm happy.


End file.
